


The Reason Behind Rust

by brisketwhisksbriskly



Category: The Vampire Diaries & Related Fandoms, Twilight Series - All Media Types, Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 04:32:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10891764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brisketwhisksbriskly/pseuds/brisketwhisksbriskly
Summary: Margot Chaplin is changed in ways she is just beginning to understand, and has withdrawn to foggy Seattle to cope with a horrifying disaster. Having retreated into her shell, the once vibrant, opinionated, and creative Margot has lost all hope of becoming who she once was- until bafflingly beautiful stranger Iggy becomes the talk of the school and somehow knows how she feels. Thrust into a world where her secrets are no longer hers and running from a shadow because of a forbidden love, Margot is forced to face who she is, who she was... and who she has the potential to become.





	1. white winter hymnal -- fleet foxes

Chapter One: White Winter Hymnal -- Fleet Foxes

The first days back to school after winter break are always the hardest. I’d adjusted to being able to have an erratic agenda; going to bed late, sleeping in, eating whenever I pleased. I figured that the past two weeks would leave my sleep schedule extremely screwed- and as I had woken up thirty minutes before my alarm in a cold sweat, I had guessed correctly. I was still in bed, watching dust motes spin in the pale fog-light streaming through my blinds when my alarm actually went off.  
In the bathroom, as I brushed my teeth, I noted how sleep-deprived I looked despite the weeks I had had to catch up. My normally light olive skin tone had been demoted down to almost pale (also due to my recent lack of access to sunlight, no doubt), and my waist-length dirty blonde locks had gone so wavy in my sleep it appeared that I had a haystack on my head. I wrestled my thick hair into two braids and shrugged at the dark circles under my eyes. I dressed in layers- dark-wash jeans, a grey turtleneck sweater, typical parka, waterproof boots.  
As I leaned against the counter, waiting for the instant coffee I’m making to finish brewing, I look at the distorted image of myself in the toaster’s metal. Four and a half months ago, the Margot Chaplin then wouldn’t have recognized the Margot now. Four and a half months ago she lived in Colorado, wore makeup everyday, was loud and giggly. This Margot - me, I should say- was newly introverted and monochromatic, residing in cloudy Seattle with Aunt Lucie. Maybe the change was for the better… no, it was for the better. If even my mother, smothering and loving in equal parts, had agreed to send her child to finish high school in another state with her sister, then it had to be for an actual reason.  
And I knew that, I really did. I still had the nightmares- it was nothing fake or overdramatic. But, as I placed the lid on my travel mug and grabbed my keys off the hook, a part of me wished that there could be some balance between both of them; the person I used to be, and the person I am now.  
As I’m waiting for the light to turn green inside my car, having pulled out of the apartment complex, I feel the familiar itch behind the ear of an intense stare. I look to my left and right, fingers tightening momentarily on stick shift, but there's no one in sight. Green light flashes and I hurriedly turn, telling myself the entire twenty-eight minute ride from University Street to Rainier Beach that it's only first-day-back jitters.  
Once I hop out of the car, I relax my grip and walk towards the school in silence, turning off my music to listen to the sound of the rain and wind. People are milling around the entrance despite the weather. Rainier Beach, although only a few minutes away from the heart of Seattle, is filled with the bored, small-minded people that normally accompany a school of roughly 600. Not that I was complaining- there was a specific reason I chose the Beach and not a bigger school, like West Seattle.  
The school itself wasn’t so bad. It was two stories, had a few AP classes, a relatively small and desolate library that I could find refuge in. A few friends I had accumulated from multiple classes together, though I hadn’t spent any time with any of them outside of institutionary hours. I was perfectly placated with my life- or, at least, I should be. And that was all that mattered now.  
The first few class periods rolled by. Teachers were handing out syllabi, people were gossiping about what had happened over winter break; so-and-so had made out at the bonfire, this person’s parents totally spoiled them, etc, etc. It wasn’t until I was walking to lunch with Abigail, a carrot-topped, tall girl who also had a penchant for tall tales, that I payed attention to what they were saying.  
“He’s so attractive- you don’t even know!” Abigail screeched, her arms flying wildly to show just how much I didn’t know.  
I nod, then ask a second later, “Um, who? Who are we talking about?”  
“Oh my gawd, Margot,” Abigail rolls her eyes. “I’ve only been talking about him all through Spanish and Math. The new guy. Duh.”  
“Oh, yeah, right. Slipped my mind,” I reply, and then begin to listen a bit more carefully. Despite the fact that Abigail thinks anything and everything is remotely interesting (caused by suburbian life, I assume), she was right on this one. Rainier Beach wasn’t too small, but talk of a new student was rare. It made sense for him to move in between semesters, and not in September of junior year like I did, so I was awfully curious as to why everybody was so fixated on him. Abigail had mentioned that he was attractive, but, yet again, she thought any guy who looked in her direction was suddenly gorgeous- and his looks couldn’t be what was attracting all this attention.  
We sat down at a lunch table, and I pulled out some celery and a book. The group of friends I normally sat with -people who I could trust to send me the homework when I forgot, or to partner with me in a group project- were used to me retreating into myself during any free time. Which, by the way, was something I hated; free time. My mind needed to stay preoccupied constantly, whether from music or novels or movies or homework. Silly banter leads to responding without thinking which leads to thinking about other things, and that was something I most definitely couldn’t afford.  
A sharp elbow in my side, ten or so minutes after I had zoned out and into my book, had me choking on a celery stick. I turned to glare at Abigail, whose bony appendage had no doubt been responsible, but she was staring open-mouthed past my shoulder… as was everyone in the general vicinity. Lackluster conversation was still occurring, in an act to stay inconspicuous, and I turned ten seconds later than everybody else in the cafeteria.  
I had never seen him before. And I didn’t just mean in the school- although there were about the same number of people in this entire school than my freshmen class in Denver. No, it was that I had never seen anybody anything like him. Ever. In that second, I could almost swear he was inhuman.  
He walked with incredible ease, like a dancer gliding across a stage, but in the same moment made it look foreboding. He had a head of ebony curls, so black and shiny it was like staring into the depths of some abyss- something straight from Dante’s Inferno. His skin was unbelievably pale- and not the paleness attributed to lack of Vitamin D most Seattleites had, but the pale of someone dead- and the deep hollows shaving off his cheekbones and lilac circles under his eyes only added to the idea. He was, without a doubt, the most beautiful person in the room. Maybe even the whole world, my melodramatic inner monologue rationalized.  
I wondered, somewhere in the back of my mind, how he was handling all the attention. There was no way he couldn’t have known that everybody was staring at him, and I felt so bad that I tore my eyes away from his full lips and straight nose- almost painfully.  
I instead stared down at my hands. They were small and childish, with dimples for knuckles, and were decorated with multiple rings found at the market and ink-splatters. I picked at the constantly chipped red nail polish on my long-ish fingernails and tried to concentrate on something else.  
Only a few seconds later I heard another gasp from someone at my table, and my head jerked up instinctively. He was right there! Staring down at me, his eyebrows furrowed delightfully, carrying a thermos that would have looked huge in my hands but seemed tiny in his. I looked into his eyes for a brief second, confused and curious, and nearly gasped myself. Framed by thick, dark eyelashes, were molten gold irises- a color I had never, ever seen. I swallowed audibly, and his eyes flitted to my covered throat and back up again in quarter of a second.  
“Hello,” he started. I felt my eyes widen slightly at his voice- hoarse yet soothing. “May I sit here?”  
“I-” I began, but then paused. There was something about the way he looked at me- an urgency, a need, one that he thought I could satiate- and I didn’t understand why. I had seen that look before- and had promised myself that I would never be subject to it again.  
“I have to go,” I said, slightly to the boy and slightly to Abigail, who was looking at me in shock. I would no doubt be interrogated as to why I ran away later, and I was thankful that we had no afternoon classes together.  
I grabbed my bag and book and bolted off, down to the library that was nearly always vacated. Slumped into a scratchy chair, I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself down. Why had I reacted that way? There was no way that boy should have that effect on me- both positive and negative. And, oh God, he probably thought I was such a weirdo! I mean, he wouldn’t be wrong, not really, but did my first impression need to be that sucktacular?  
The rest of the day passed by with the same blurry qualities that the morning had. As soon as the final bell rang at 3:45, I bolted out of the math door and down to the student parking lot, towards my 1982 Volkswagen Rabbit, which was a chipped red like my nails. It stood out ostentatiously in the parking lot full of parent hand-me-downs, but I loved it nonetheless. Inside, I swing my backpack onto the passenger's seat and pull out a random CD from my stack. Popping it in and swinging out of the parking lot at break-neck timing, I find myself turning the dial all the way up, trying to blast the lunch incidence out of my head with indie rock. Once on University Street again and into the parking garage, twenty or so minutes later, I sat in the car and debated.  
I had no homework; something I knew my classmates were probably enjoying, but that I was loathing. How was I going to fill up all my spare time? Aunt Lucie would still be at her PR office until six or so, leaving a whole bunch of nothing in my future. I considered cooking dinner- tonight was her night, but that usually meant Thai or Italian takeout. And I was itching for a coffee.  
Decided on how I would spend my time, I ran upstairs to grab my laptop and ditch my backpack, yanking out the braids and running my hands through the coils ferociously, trying to get rid of a sudden pounding headache that I had accumulated.


	2. holocene -- bon iver

Chapter 2: Holocene -- Bon Iver 

Once in the car, my body automatically knew where to go. It was only a mile up to the area near Seattle University from the apartment, and where there was college there was caffeine. My favorite was from the first shop I’d ever been to- a cute hybrid bookstore slash tea bar. I parked the car up the street from the Book Bar and payed the meter quickly, hoping to beat the college student rush. Book Bar was half rustic and half vintage, with large wooden block counters, chalkboard walls, and mismatched antique furniture hidden within the maze of messily stacked and shelved books. Their plethora of novels ranged from first-editions to teen magazines, and were organized in no order whatsoever. The bell rang as I stepped in, and the familiar person behind the counter smiled at me warmly.  
“Margot! It’s been a while,” Angela murmured, already ringing up my order (she knew it by heart). Angela was a twenty-something graduate of Washington State University, with a kind face, light brown hair and eyes, and a gentle demeanor. She was quick to offer help, and also very perceptive- she could tell when I needed to be left alone, or when she should offer one of the new drinks she was always concocting.  
“Hey, Angela,” I reply, digging through my purse for my scruffy wallet. “I spent all of winter break holed up in my room- extremely productive. You?”  
“Working on that stupid film, as always,” she scoffs jokingly. Angela’s told me parts of her life- how she graduated and didn’t find any careers worth pursuing, and how she’s now managing Book Bar to have the money to both survive and pursue her dream career- movie making. She’s gotten the screen play all taken care of, and now Angela was working on capturing the movie itself.  
“Don’t forget- you promised I could see it when it’s over. I’m holding you to it!” I joke, taking my dirty chai and croissant.  
“I would never break a promise!” Angela responds back, and with a smile she moves onto the next customer.  
Angela and the coffee shop were one of the regular things in my life currently keeping me sane. As I sank down into a puffy armchair near an outlet, I wondered if I was going insane. I had plenty of reason to, I tried to remind myself. But I had been doing so well- not thinking about anything that had happened nearly five months ago…  
I shook my head in disgust and took a giant gulp of chai, burning my tongue. I brusquely opened my laptop, clicking past several spam pop-ups to my lock screen- a picture of Mom, Gat, and I hiking back in Colorado. Gat, being the annoying older brother he was, had attempted to pick both Mom and I up at the same time. I had responded with a slap to his arm and Mom had just started screaming. It was one of my favorite pictures- and probably because it was before. I was tanned and smiley, my phone constantly in hand to Snapchat the scenery. Afterwards, I was treated like glass; my teachers would pat me gently and say I could get an extension on any work, Mom would take me Barnes and Noble every other day and kept buying me clothes I had pointed out weeks before at the mall in passing. My friends didn’t treat me any certain way, they ignored me. Pretended I didn’t exist, even when everyone found out that I hadn’t been lying. The only people that hadn’t acted like I was ancient and decrepit were Gat and Aunt Lucie. Sure, Gat wouldn’t wrestle me quite as hard as he used to, and Aunt Lucie clicked away when the news came up with any story quite like mine, but I was still Margot to them. Margot 2.0, at least.  
I shut my eyes slowly and then checked all my teacher's calendar’s on their websites, hoping for an assignment, but they were all empty. I had no email's to respond to. None of the blogs I liked had any new content. Slamming the laptop shut a bit too forcefully, I got up and perused the walls for any new finds. 20 minutes later I had a book based in 1920’s London and a guide on changing habits.  
Looking at the time, I noticed it was close to five, and Lucie would be home sooner rather than later. I quickly paid for the books and walked to my car, noting the onslaught of darkness and hurrying even faster.  
Trader Joe’s was oddly busy, so I hurried through, grabbing pasta, pesto sauce, sundried tomatoes, and a loaf of french bread. When I got home, bags overflowing and me struggling to open the apartment door, the lights were still off.  
I turned on all the lights and even lit a few of the many candles, the dark scaring me a bit more than it should've. Aunt Lucie’s apartment was incredibly nice, and was decorated exactly how I would have. A mixture of modern and thrift, her kitchen was wooden counters and bright yellow cabinets. The living room had a turquoise couch, a large tapestry, and one wall painted pumpkin orange. There were three bedrooms and two baths, so I didn’t have to share anything with Lucie, which was comforting. From what I’d seen, Lucie’s bedroom and bathroom were messy and rainbow-colored. Her office/painting studio was filled with empty canvasses and mugs of stale coffee, and smelled like the sweet patchouli soap she got from LUSH. My bedroom and bathroom -my sanctuary, I should say- were both decorated newly. I had a big bed with a light pink duvet, a large marbled desk, a walk-in closet, a large bookshelf with a small reading nook decorated in fairy lights, and a huge window overlooking the street next to gauzy yellow curtains. My bathroom was simple and had a large claw footed tub that I absolutely adored.  
I changed into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt with some Bob Dylan quote on it that Gat had gotten me last Christmas while the water was boiling. Then I headed into the living room, choosing the Vampire Weekend record from the stack underneath the end table holding our Crosley and lighting an incense stick from its holder on the glass coffee table.  
As I cooked the pasta and slathered my family’s secret garlic bread recipe over the french bread, I realized how shitty the day had already been. I’d somewhat turned down the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen and probably would ever see, and set a bad precedent just because of something that had happened a few months ago.  
The door banged open unceremoniously and in walked Lucie, juggling a stack of papers and a large rainbow umbrella.  
“Margot! You didn’t have to make dinner, it’s not your night,” she exclaims, throwing her purse onto the bar and throwing off her heels.  
“I know, Luce, I just felt like it,” I respond, spooning the pesto pasta into giant wooden bowls and placing the garlic bread on top. I balance the bowls in one hand and head over to the couch, where we spend most of our dinners. I turn the TV on to Lucie’s favorite news station and grab the book on change that I had gotten at Book Bar.  
Lucie comes back into the room, her long auburn hair down, sweats on, and a glass of red in her hand. She eyes my book and raises one brow. “What’s that about?” she says, nodding to my hand and then shoveling some pasta in her mouth.  
I swallow. “Um… nothing. New year, new me?”  
I meant to say it firmly, positively, so Lucie would believe me and drop the subject. But maybe I looked more pitiful than I thought I would, because Lucie just swirled the wine in her hand and looked at me hard before returning to the news.  
When I arrived in September, broken and beaten down, Lucie had treated me as normally as possible, which I was eternally grateful for. She had made no comment to my nightmares, my three am steamy baths, the fidgety way my fingers scratched my wrist when I got nervous in a situation. My mother had always been loud and bold; she shook me awake every night, knocked on the door every few minutes as I tried to relax in the water, peskily pointed to my scarred wrist in public. I had in turn made life a living hell for her (and me, although at that point I hadn’t minded it as much). I refused to go to therapy, was vague when she didn’t need me to be, complained loudly, threw fits, didn’t do school work. But with Lucie treating me like someone who could heal, not someone permanently broken, I graciously was calm for her. Swallowed my pills, dedicated myself in excelling at school, ate a balanced diet after a month of severely fluctuating weight gain and loss.  
Lucie was a people person, and she knew when and how to push people. I was extremely happy that I’d gone to live with her, but also guilty for abandoning my mother. It was Gat’s idea. He’d taken another weeklong vacation from his college in Portland to come mend our family’s fraying relationship. When he’d witnessed a screaming match between Mom and I, he was quiet for a minute. Then he simply said, “I think Margot should move in with Aunt Lucie.”  
Mom was outraged. She thought that I was abandoning her, that I loved Lucie more than her, that I was ignoring my problems. But Gat had calmed her down enough, and I was packing within a few days.  
Thinking about Mom so much made me want to call her. I washed my dish and set it in the dishwasher, then grabbed the home phone and dialed her familiar number. The phone was lodged in between my shoulder and ear as I scrubbed away at the dishes.  
She didn’t answer. That was weird for me, but at the same time familiar. Before what happened, she never had her phone on her. In fact, she’d missed the police’s phone call after they’d found me. After that, she had her phone glued to her hand, ringer on. Was this a sign? That we were moving on? I didn’t quite know how to feel about that.


	3. bunker -- balthazar

Chapter Three: Bunker -- Balthazar

The next few days I had slept well, but the night before Friday morning I had slumbered deeply and dreamlessly, waking earlier than usual. I raked my hair into a lopsided bun and dressed in black jeans, a red and white striped t-shirt, denim jacket, and orange scarf. Schoolwork had left me busy- too busy to think about anything bad- but in the back of my mind I wondered why I hadn’t seen the new guy. I shouldn’t be wondering, since I had kind-of sort-of maybe turned him down and had no right to, but it still baffled me how gorgeous he was. As the days passed since I’d seen him, I began to think that I had overexaggerated in his beauty.  
And then he walked into third period AP Lang.  
We were working on an essay in the computer lab (one that I had already finished), so Mr Henderson had grudgingly given me an extra credit assignment after I threatened to play Cool Math Games. My earbuds plugged in, I began typing when the door to the lab swung open, five minutes late. In walks him, and -goddamnit- he looks exactly as I pictured. His thick black curls flowed in a disarray as he casually glides in and stops by the teachers desk, holding a red pass gently in his white fingers.  
“I’m the transfer from 11th grade English Honors?” he questions, and I can feel the swooning of several people, girls and boys alike, at the sound of his voice. I relate; to me, it’s as beautiful as a Cigarettes After Sex album playing on vinyl.  
Mr Henderson hands him a paper with the essay prompt on it and invites him to sit anywhere in the lab. A quick scan of the room tells me that I stupidly picked the only empty row of computers to work in. No, not stupidly. You couldn’t have known about this, I remind myself, and steel myself for him to sit down.  
“Ask Margot for assistance if you need any,” shouts Mr Henderson, pointing to me as he moves lithely through the row and sits one computer away.  
“Iggy,” he says in way of greeting, not unkindly, turning to face me as he slings his backpack onto the ground like it weighs nothing.  
I hesitate for a second, then pause my music and eye his beautiful face. Why in the world would he be talking to me, besides the fact that our teacher had suggested it? In the first place, there were undoubtedly much more sociable and more, well, his level people than myself, and I had already been slightly rude to him. Most guys would turn to glare at me or ignore me or something, if I remember high school males correctly- it’d been a very long time since my last interaction. I’m nearly out of breath, like I just ran a race, and I have no clue why. “Margot Chaplin.” I repeat. And then, like my mouth opens on demand, I question, “Ignatious or Sigmund?”  
He looks at me for a second, his eyes crinkled, then he breaks into a dazzling smile that suckerpunches me and everybody else in the room in the stomach. I can hear the pop of mouths opening behind me, and his eyes flicker back there for a millisecond before facing me again.  
“Indigo, actually. Although, it’s hardly fair to have people guess it.”  
“Um. It’s not a very popular name, I guess. Quite unique.”  
“I could say the same about Margot,” he counters quietly.  
I smile a bit at that, then shrug my shoulders and turn back to my computer abruptly. “I suppose.”  
We both work in silence, still noting our classmates stares. They must be as baffled as I was that Iggy talked to me, and that I had responded back. The small group of friends I had made was either due to school projects or the fact that Abigail could never take no for an answer and insisted I become her friend- not because of my increasingly awkward social skills.  
As I was logging off the computer and packing my stuff, I felt a small yet frigid touch on my elbow. I whirled around, shocked at the icy feeling, and found Iggy, who jerked his hand away quicker than I could ever move. “Sorry,” he replied hastily. “I was just wondering if you could show me the way to the library?”  
“Uh, sure,” I replied, gathering my bag as the bell rang. “Right this way.”  
I had been planning on going to the library anyways, but I debated eating lunch with Abigail again. There was still something about the way Iggy was staring at me- not creepy, I don’t think, but curious, like I had a giant neon sign with an arrow pointing “FREAK!” down onto my head.  
As we reached the double doors of the library, I beckoned him in, having made my mind that I wasn’t going to work inside. But instead of heading in with a quick wave of thanks, Iggy turned and stared at me with such ferocity I felt weak.  
“Margot,” he said carefully, and shivers ran up my spine. I definitely shouldn’t be reacting to him this way.  
“Yes?”  
“Are you okay?” Iggy asked cautiously. His gaze was so intense, yet his question so normal.  
“Of course, why wouldn’t I be?” I responded warily. I had an odd feeling that he wasn’t talking about today in general- but I had no clue where he could’ve gotten the idea that I really wasn’t alright.  
“I think you know what I mean,” he said meaningfully, leaning in slightly closer. His scent devoured me, slightly sweet with a musky overlay, and I involuntarily leaned forward to him. Iggy stiffened ever so slightly, and my head cleared.  
I stuttered a bit, grasping the fabric of my bag in tight fists and twisting them while I struggled to speak. “I-I-I… I h-have no clue what you’re saying.”  
He stared harder, ever so slightly raising an eyebrow fluidly. My feeble voice and blood-drained face wouldn’t convince anybody. Still, I stare back, challenging. Directly into his molten eyes, which was leaving me jittery, but nonetheless effective.  
“Fine,” Iggy sighs, frustrated. What does he know? “If you need anything, to talk or… Just call me, okay?”  
He passes me a slip of paper, and my shaky hands reluctantly take it.  
“Okay?” he presses, leaning down to peer into my eyes.  
“Dude, fine, okay,” I respond, attempting to be nonchalant. Iggy nods once, then takes off into the library.  
And… I can’t move. I stand there, in the hallway, people shoving me out of their way or grumbling towards me, but I am paralyzed. What does he know? Did he somehow go to my old school, or live in the same area? There was something that he knew, I knew without a doubt.  
As the final bell rang, I hiked my bag further up my shoulder and stumbled down the stairs and out the entrance as fast as I could. Into the parking lot I went, until I collapsed into my car and threw open the door. It was currently 11:35, which meant four more hours of school; I felt like vomiting at that realization. With newfound determination, I gunned the car and threw in an old mixtape I had made from my emo phase. Surprising myself, I sang along to all the songs loud and angrily, trying to expel the sadness and replace it with rage.  
In the fist gripping the steering wheel, I eventually remembered was Iggy’s number. At a stoplight, I opened the slip up and stared at his beautiful penmanship, spelling out the numbers to reach him in such a way that it looked like arts and not a quick note. I debated crumpling it up and throwing it into my backseat, but hesitated. In a split second decision as the light turned green, I folded it smoothly and put it in the pocket of my black parka.


End file.
